


A Few Points of Interest

by alea_archivist (the_aleator)



Series: A Mere Appendix [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Comedy, Friendship, Gen, Humour, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, The Author Regrets Nothing, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_aleator/pseuds/alea_archivist
Summary: What exactly was the case of 'the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant'? Holmes might not want to admit it, but Watson and Lestrade still have a good laugh about it.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: A Mere Appendix [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636375
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9
Collections: Watson's Woes JWP Entries: 2013





	A Few Points of Interest

Our first introduction, I am pleased to note, was fortunately our final meeting with the politician Mr. Nicholas Wescott. He arrived at a quarter past ten, dressed in a particularly outrageous shade of lilac, with outlandish lapels and an egregious tie which resembled little more than wallpaper in heather paisley. Diminutive, with an unpracticed physique, despite his infamous charm I found him quite off-putting.

Notorious for his conquests, it was perhaps inevitable that his folly should lead to greater danger.

“But Mr. Holmes,” He said with a rather sniveling air, “I simply must have those letters returned to me. It is absolutely vital.” Holmes looked impassive, and said in reply

“So you have elaborated, Mr. Wescott. But such a petty case of blackmail may be relied upon in the hands of police.”

“Yet I should have your services, Mr. Holmes, for a man in my position.” He pleaded, with rather an affected voice. “I simply cannot allow Mrs. Crump to keep those letters!” He threw his hands up in despair, and Holmes turned towards the window, as I ushered Mr. Wescott out.

I returned to Holmes smoking his pipe.

“My processes are much improved by the removal of that gentleman from our sitting room, Watson.” He addressed to me, stroking at the wood of his pipe. “Yet I shall take this case, if only for the wretched lack of work at all in London these days. Where did Wescott say Mrs. Crump lived?”

“In Margate, Holmes.” I responded, “At the lighthouse in the North Foreland. She and her husband run the lighthouse there, into the North Sea.”

“A lonesome occupation,” He said drily, “yet some distance for Mr. Wescott to travel, to see his paramour.”

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Bah! It was simply a circumstance for Mr. Wescott to maintain a comfortable yet unknown side. It was she who traveled to London to see him; I shall stake my reputation on it.”

He waved his pipe, shot from his chair as if a bullet and dove into his room.

“Do find the nearest train to Margate, Watson.” He called from his room, with the faint sounds of rustling. “And summon Lestrade – no doubt we shall have need of his official powers.”

Lestrade met us at King’s Cross, with the usual look of expectant yet wary hope upon his face. Following at Holmes’ heels, I noted the extra set of Darbies he slipped into his pocket as we boarded the train.

“Expecting trouble, Lestrade?” I queried as we trod the hallway, several paces behind Holmes.

“In your company – always!” He laughed, and then whispered to my ear. “Just in case, you know, Dr. Watson. Just in case.” He said, and with one forefinger pointed at Holmes’ back.

I was fully cognizant of the feeling that my companion was just escaped from Bedlam, and occasionally found myself wondering if I deserved to be sent there also, for keeping company with him.

We arrived at the North Foreland lighthouse with some ease, for Margate had been for many years a resort for the sea. The lighthouse was a pretty thing, white and beautifully set against the coast. Ignoring these things with a casual obliviousness, Holmes inspected the ground at once, though what he was looking for, I cannot say.

Lighthouses and their keepers do much of their work at night, so it was perhaps not a surprise that Mr. and Mrs. Crump were not roused by our cries and knocking. Lestrade huffed, Holmes schemed, and I, observing all these things, pounded thrice more at the door.

It was answered by a more elderly gentleman, who I took to be Mr. Crump.

“Who are you then, sirs?” He said gruffly, as he took in the trio of us, huddled on the doorstep.

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Holmes said grandly, “and I wish to speak to your wife.”

“Well, I suppose you had better come in then.” Crump said, and ushered us before him into a small, though well-kept sitting room. He exited, and returned a few moments later with his wife, a comely buxom woman who looked to be at least a decade younger than her husband.

“What can I do for you, gentleman?” She said, setting primly on the settee. I looked rather uncomfortably at her husband still standing in the doorway, but Holmes pressed onward.

“It is about your correspondence with Mr. Wescott.” He announced masterfully, his grey eyes intent upon her, “he wishes it back, and I have been sent for it.”

“Such a petty errand for a man like yourself.” She said, and grasping at her apron continued, “yet I should like to keep them, sir, and so you may tell him.”

“Blackmail, Mrs. Crump, is quite against the law.” Holmes said and in response she gave a slight sniff. Mr. Crump returned to stand by his wife, and at the sight of his large clenched fists, I drew in a deeper breath.

“Blackmail,” She said archly, “Never, sir. Just remembrance.” In response to this womanly attribute, Holmes found himself somewhat at a loss for words.

“Surely you appreciate the situation Mr. Wescott is in,” I said, “being a politician of some note.” At this, Lestrade shifted from the chair, for as I have said, Mr. Wescott was notorious for his relations with the female sex other than his wife. This was, perhaps, the reason for the unfortunate misunderstanding that occurred next.

“You must understand, Mrs. Crump, that I shall be much obliged…” Lestrade began to say, and he was at once cut off by Mr. Crump, who roared

“You – you are Mr. Wescott?” as he took one stride towards Lestrade’s chair, seized him up by the tie which Lestrade wore fashionably long, and struck Lestrade on the face with a fist much like a hammer. Lestrade kicked the other man in the shin, and Mrs. Crump shrieked.

It was at this point that the situation descended into pandemonium. What I had taken for a cat in a basket, reared long, narrow black wings and rose into the air, soaring for the nearest intruder, which was Holmes. A cormorant, it struck at Holmes’ face with its beak, and swatted at his head with its wings, trained, I should guess, to protect its mistress.

Torn between assisting Lestrade (who was even now being strangled with his own necktie) or Holmes (where the cormorant had degenerated to splattering him with fecal matter of a most liquid kind, and hissing at him in a most foul way). My decision was made for me, as Mrs. Crump, being a formidable sort of woman, made for the mantelpiece where there was all sort of bric-a-brac, all too easily made into projectiles.

I understood the instinct to protect her husband, but found myself ducking small ceramics and wondering at the extent of her desire – which is to say both her aim and power. I subdued her by trapping her against the mantelpiece and seizing both her wrists gently. Turning about, I found that Lestrade was even now settling Darbies around Mr. Crump's thick wrists with a self-satisfied air, and Holmes had swaddled the cormorant in a throw, which was even now attempting to buffet his hands. It may have been the indiscernible emotion on his face, but I should have said Holmes looked put out.

We returned to London with the packet of letters, successfully lodged in Holmes jacket-pocket, and Lestrade and I found ourselves to be chuckling like schoolboys when Holmes stepped out of the compartment.

“I never thought I should see the day where Mr. Holmes should be attacked by a bird, of all things.” Lestrade mused, feeling at the growing contusion on his chin with wondering hands.

“And in such a way,” I agreed, for even Holmes’ attempt at sponging at removed only the worst of the debris from his jacket, which still bore tell-tale white stains.

“Indeed,” Lestrade shook his head, as he stretched out on the railway seat. “Mind you,” He said “We’ll not see a word of this in the Strand.”

Nodding, I refrained from laughter, for Holmes had just stepped back into the compartment as he stated solemnly

“I should not like this case written up, Watson. A trifle without any particular points of deductive merit.” Holmes sniffed, and I looked at him with a hidden humor as Lestrade contained his amusement only by strength of will, and gave a small wink.

I wrote the case up, for even if Holmes should think it a trifle, for Lestrade and myself it certainly contained points of interest.

**Author's Note:**

> JWP #16 - picture of lighthouse and suit, also refers to the 'case of the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant' from "The Adventures of the Veiled Lodger".


End file.
